


Mistletoe And Wine

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Dry Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulled wine, candy canes and the old question: have you been naughty or nice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe And Wine

“No. No no no no no, no.” Emma shakes her head fiercely. “It's inclined to the left, don't you see that?”

“It is not,” Killian growls in an exasperated voice. “From where I stand, it looks perfectly straight.” He gestures grumpily towards the huge Christmas tree he's trying to put up with big effort in their spacious living room.

Emma giggles. “Please. I think you need to look again. If it was any more inclined, it would topple over.” She's enjoying the domestic feeling of spending their first Christmas together in their new home, sipping hot aromatic beverages in a comfortable armchair in front of a cackling fire while giving commands to her man, pestering and teasing him about putting up the Christmas tree in a perfect alignment, like every normal woman. That her man (and soon-to-be husband) happens to be Captain Hook, the most cutthroat pirate to ever fare the Seven Seas – and even some not known to man – makes it even more delightful.

“And I think,” he replies pointedly, “your vision is blurred by too much mulled wine, Swan.” With a flick of his wrist, he motions towards the steaming mug in her hand that smells of red wine, cinnamon and other spices.

“You better do the deed, Captain,” she tells him indignantly, “or else my father will not let you live it down that you can't even properly put up a tree.”

He glares at her in a way that warms her stomach and flushes her skin more than all the mulled wine in the world could. “If you're that unsatisfied, Savior, why don't you just fix it?” At the last two words, he crunches his nose, a sign that he's a bit edgy. Also, he pops the 't' a little. 

Emma licks her lips and puts her mug on the little coffee table beside the armchair. “What fun would that be?” 

“That's enough,” he growls and grabs the trunk again, putting his bare foot on the Christmas tree stand to keep it steady while adjusting the tree. “Now, you just bloody tell me how you want it, and...” He's speaking over his shoulder and just catches a glimpse of Emma disappearing from the living room. “Swan!” he calls after her. “Where in blazes are you going?!”

“Getting you some wine,” he hears her answer, accompanied by another giggle, “you're so uptight!”

“Wonderful,” he snarls to himself, but he can't help grinning at her girlish joy and playfulness, something that has been all to rare in her life when he met her, but slowly is becoming part of her – their – everyday life. To enjoy the quiet moments, the simple things... that's something they both are still trying to get used to. 

All those Christmas habits of this realm are new to him – some seem weirder than others. Emma, of course, knows them all, but that doesn't mean she's used to them. Due to her growing up in group homes mostly and in foster care she's never really experienced all that what makes Christmas Christmas in this realm, so she's reveling in it now. The socks at the fireplace, whatever they're good for he keeps forgetting, the tree. Cookies. She's burned a myriad of them before finally getting a handful of them right, with her mother's help. Decorations all over the house. Ugly sweaters with reindeers, snowmen and wrapped gifts. Mistletoe everywhere – he has learned quickly what that is good for, and he surely isn't complaining about it. Oh, and candy canes. She's eating so many of those pretty, but sickeningly sweet atrocities that he fears for her health. He doesn't like them, but he approves of the chances for many an innuendo. And mulled wine with a variety of spices and a slight overdose of cinnamon. Emma loves all of this, and he loves her girlish enthusiasm. And if earlier he was a bit annoyed with her for making his Christmas task not really easy, that carefree sound she just made is worth all of it and more. Because Emma Swan's laughter is the most precious thing in the world to Killian Jones.

Regardless, that doesn't mean he won't make her pay for her pestering.

When she comes sauntering back into the living room, a mug of mulled wine for him in her hand, he's there, waiting under the door frame, right beneath the mistletoe, to grab her around the waist with his hooked arm and yank her towards him.

“Careful!” she protests. “I'm gonna spill that!”

“You're gonna put that down,” he replies firmly and takes the mug out of her hand, placing it on the coffee table as well. “I'm gonna spill something.” The look he gives her is downright dirty, and when he lets his hook glide to her lower back and pulls her body flush to his, the sweatpants they're both wearing leave very little to the imagination about what he has in mind.

Emma shivers at his words, her eyes darkening the moment she feels him press hard against her. “You're not done yet with the tree,” she reminds him in a playfully haughty tone, very well aware of how that will make him react, the glint in her eyes betraying the position of the Christmas tree is the last thing on her mind right now.

“I am, for now,” comes the determined answer in a low voice that makes her toes in her fluffy socks curl and dives down to kiss the left side of her throat, deliberately scraping his scruff across her tender flesh. “What needs to be tended to now is you.” She sighs and automatically, her fingers curl into the fabric of his long-sleeved v-neck shirt. "Besides," he murmurs against her skin, "you haven't answered my question yet."

"Which question?" she asks in a breathless voice and lets her head roll a little to the side to give him better access, a moan escaping her throat when he sucks a mark into the skin at the base of her throat where it meets the collarbone.

He chuckles and soothes the bruise with his tongue. "Tell me how you want it," he repeats his earlier demand, his voice low and gravelly as he slips his hand underneath her sweater and up her ribcage. His palm is warm and a little rough, and goosebumps blossom where he touches her.

“The tree?” Emma's fingers find the patch of chest hair displayed with his v-neck and tug at it, knowing that will spur him on even more. “Hmmm,” she hums as his hand cups her left breast, “straight and steady.”

“Cocky, are we,” he replies and raises his head to tilt it and look at her with a twitching eyebrow. Then, with a sudden move of his knee, he nudges her thighs open and lets his body fall forward, trapping her against the door frame and rolling his hips against hers to make her feel it, and she does, he can tell it by the little gasp she lets out and by the way her back arches, pushing her breast into his hand in an encouraging move. Through the lacy material of her bra, he strokes the pad of his thumb over her already taut nipple, eliciting a little whimper from her this time. While her shoulders are pressed into the wood of the door frame, Killian uses his hook to pull her lower body against his and starts to lasciviously rock his sweatpant-covered erection against her center. She moans and responds to his rhythmic moves. “That steady enough for you, Swan?” he teases, his voice dropped so low now that it's barely more than a rumble deep in his chest.

Emma bites her lip and tries to pull back, reaching between their bodies for the waistband of his sweats, clear in her intentions. “Off with these,” she pants, but he grabs her hips with his hook and his hand, yanking her back to him into an especially wicked thrust of his hips that has her gasp ecstatically.

“That commanding tone won't get you anywhere, love,” he croons, “try again.”

She runs her hands up his chest, finger spread, enjoying the feeling of his toned pecs through the fabric of his shirt, all the while he keeps rutting into her. Falling into his pace, she moves back against him. When she speaks – pants, is more like it – , her words come out in the rhythm of their dry-humping. “Can I... unwrap... my gift... please?”

“Hmmmm, let's see,” his answer is murmured against the sensitive skin behind her right ear before he swirls his tongue languidly along the edge of her shell, “have you been naughty or nice?”

Emma wraps her right leg around his left, partly to pull him closer into her, partly to give him better access to where she aches so desperately for him. “Very, very naughty, I'm afraid,” she replies, her tone teetering between impatience and greed – she wants nothing more that to get him and herself out of their clothes, at least out of their pants, and feel him inside her; on the other hand she can't bring herself to break the contact between their bodies – too glorious is the friction, too immediate her need.

He senses her hesitation and chuckles; that's just the push he needed. He grabs the back of her thighs with both his hand and his hook and lifts her up in a fast move, backing her against the door frame again, ignoring her indignant huff. “Not naughty enough,” he purrs into her ear as he settles between her thighs again that are now wrapped around his waist.

“Killian,” she protests feebly, “I need to...”

“What?” he interrupts and picks up his earlier rhythm again, slow and lazy at first, every flex of his hips dragging his whole length across her bundle of nerves. “Feel me, inside you? Moving like this?” He adds a swift circling move, eliciting a beautiful, drawn-out moan from her throat, and bloody hell, he can feel through the layers of fabric separating them that her nub is swollen. He can only imagine the mess her cotton snowman panties must be by now, and the thought spurs him on immensely. He picks up speed, hips mercilessly bucking into her, while he continues to murmur in her ear in that tone of voice that alone can bring her to the edge of bliss. “In... and out... and in... and out...”

“Oh God, please,” she gasps and claws her fingers into his hair, “damn you...”

Killian sees the traitorous blush rise fro her collarbones over her neck, a sure sign that she won't hold up much longer, and secretly, he's grateful for that. All she needs now, is a little more verbal and... well... not so verbal stimulation. He's happy to provide both. “So naughty, Swan,” he growls into her ear, making sure to scrape his scruff across her sensitive skin, and he can hear her breath becoming ragged as he thrusts into her pant-covered core hard and fast, “letting me take you here under the mistletoe like this...”

Her eyes are wide open now. “I can't...”

“While you wish... I was inside you...” More speed, more force, and a deeper timbre to his voice. “...pumping into you... deeper and deeper...”

Her grasp at his hair is almost painful now, but that's all the motivation he needs, that and her almost sobbed words: “Oh... Killian... I'm going to...”

“Go ahead,” he spurs her on and thrusts against her a few more times, straight and steady, like she requested, feeling her legs start to tremble already, “come into your knickers like the naughty girl you are.”

Her whole body stiffens against him as she does exactly that with a rush and a barely muffled cry, and he doesn't still immediately but rocks against her a few more times, more softly now, to bring her down again from her high. When he feels the tension of her muscles relax, he carefully lowers her legs, helping to put her feet safely to the floor. Her eyes are still squeezed shut and her head thrown back against the solid wood of the door frame, a few beads of perspiration blossoming on her upper lip, and with the post-orgasmic flush of her cheeks she is easily the most beautiful thing he has ever seen sporting an ugly reindeer sweater. When her breathing has slowed down again and she finally opens her eyes, he's glad to see they are still of a dark emerald color, the tinge of green that's an unmistakable sign of desire. Honestly, he's quite grateful for that, because unlike her, he has yet to get his release. He's rock-hard now and just about ready to snap, and in his mind he's concentrating on sailor's knots' techniques to distract him from the almost painful throb between his legs.

He smirks. “You may unwrap your gift now,” he tells her almost nonchalantly, and only his centuries of experience allow him to keep that gravelly tone in his voice.

This time, it's Emma pushing him back against the opposite side of the door frame, and he follows her lead, because he knows what's good for him, just like she does. “Cocky, are we?” she throws back his earlier words at him and brings her face close to his, so close he can feel her hot breath on his lips. “How many times do I have to tell you,” she whispers – and she's definitely being naughty now, he can tell by the firm way she cups his throbbing length through his pants – “that a mistletoe is only for kissing.”

Then she drops to her knees, and he lets his head fall back with a little thump and thinks of all the wonderful innuendos he shall fling at her when he sees her the next time with a candy cane in her very talented mouth. When she pulls down his pants, he pushes his hips a little forward while his hand finds the way into her hair and he murmurs: “Oh yes, definitely naughty.”


End file.
